Peter Lilly: Poems

'Two others also, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him.' Calendar's rhythm thuds. The kick drum rattles your rib cage As collective memories and communal routines Plume like dust from that undulating skin. ..... You must wrap gifts in superfluous paper, ..... That's tradition. ..... Yet repeating acts to underline thankfulness, ..... That's superstition. Calendar's rhythm thuds And we bellow through that dust cloud, Clearing our throats and averting our eyes. THUD For the drum announces the sales THUD The rhythm is the anthem of vacation gifts. So discard the old and ugly, To find the beauty, To spend and to own.  'They came to the place that is called The Skull ' Excited skin bristles. Chill shivers the spine in want For purpose and ergonomics dim in contrast To the lights, and the efficacious movement of the crowd. ..... So much spectacle, ..... All these plate glass doors, ...

If you are anywhere near Northwest London this Easter you should go along to the Easter Joy and Justice Arts Project in Northwood.   It's 'An amazing opportunity to engage with various art pieces, created by 13 local artists, and see the Easter narrative in a new light. The project combines the Easter narrative with issues of justice (e.g. homelessness, poverty, climate change, drought) and brings together these concepts through various pieces of reflective and transformative light.'   It's running from 11th to the 22nd of April, for specific times and more details follow the link.

Gentle chill mingles with February sun to warm my bones, and prick my skin with cold.  Lake calm sleep breath waves expose the broken shells that make up the earth,  and keep the land believing in winter.  When I lived in the U.K. the first sunny day of spring would burn itself onto my memory with relief from the cold, joy in the warmth, and anticipation for the summer to come. Most years I would write a poem on that day about my excitement (such as ' I have missed the sun ' written in April 2011).  Now I live in Montpellier in the south of France, that feeling comes a little earlier in the year. This year it was towards the end of February, when we were at the beach near Sète for the day. It was warm but the (relative) cold of winter was still clinging to the air. The feeling given by the weather matched  the relief and thankfulness we feel at finally moving into our flat here in Montpellier. 

Surrounded by the displaced I will work tirelessly To renounce my citizenship. My silhouette in this system Is cast by the shadow of my ego, The me that belongs was made for death And I will no longer conform to its will.  With everything that happened in 2016, the question of national identity and citizenship is a hot topic. This poem is named after the book by Stanley Hauerwas and William H. Willimon which discusses the nature of the church and its relationships to the cultures it exists within.  Christians are not supposed to be citizens belonging to the cultures of this world, but Resident Aliens, living  uncomfortably  within yet with our identity firmly planted in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. At a time when the world has more displaced people than ever on record, most of us in our comfortable western lives, will be encountering 'aliens' on a regular basis. Let this new year be an opportunity to extend grace to those who do not f...

The country I now call home is bleeding a senseless and panicked red, diluting its pain in the silence of normal morning routines. I still make my love the coffee I promised before we'd risen and seen the news, before we'd thought of the inevitability of children at fireworks, and how this the attacker knew. She looks so beautiful,  eyes heavy and glistening with unspilt tears.  Neither of us knowing how to use words,  how to understand the reality of atrocity.  Beyond the consolations of world leaders,  beyond social media reactions,  beyond the spin this will be used for,  beyond the excuses and explanations,   beyond the claims of responsibility and repeating backlash,  beyond the reports and crafted articles,  beyond the frames of the chosen photographs.  The truth is shards of lacerating glass.  It is a blood-stained truck and pieces of people.  It is a child's excitement dashed ...

Spacial awareness   let us down again, and shattered  another urn, spilling that morbid sand. In the irritation  of  vacuuming respectfully    we give a moment of meaning  back to sooty remains.  Referendums pass the time.  They draw out experts who,  with shouts and keystrokes,  fling the spittle of their opinion.  Elections pass the buck.  With their signs and slogans  they draw out the masses  to choose between arsenic and anthrax.  The French call their ballot box an urn.  It is where we cast  the ashes of our expired ideals,  to be scattered amongst  the winning or loosing percentage,  as the fate of the nation  teeters on the whims   of  fickle voters and loyal tabloid readers.  All the projected outcomes  are varied shades of ash,  and a different decor  of the receptacl...

Hope distinguishes itself from now. It is gazing at milestones that keeps the rhythm constant. Thud, Crack, rustle, shhh Thud, Crack, rustle, shhh... kicking stones. Hope is a hammer.      It fractures skulls,      it embeds nails. Hope is a hammer.      It cracks metal,      it shapes what is forged. It is the violence at the door to keep you inside. It is the violence to bend the bars of your entrapment. Find your hope, a hope that builds and frees,  know the reason behind it and wield it.  wield the hammer of your hope. Written in the Autumn of 2015, about the violence of hope that can be for good or for bad.